


Obliviousness and Understanding

by SherlockxofxBakerSt



Series: After the End Comes Healing [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meltdown, Men Crying, No Smut, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockxofxBakerSt/pseuds/SherlockxofxBakerSt
Summary: A swell of assurance burned in his chest as his hands fussed over one another. It was decided then. It wasn’t a blessing, but he’d gotten his thoughts out and his white wings weren’t beginning to smolder. Heaven wasn’t watching. At least, anyone who would… anyone like Gabriel. After all, for millennia, he might have allowed himself to be oblivious to Her omniscience, pretending that she couldn’t know exactly what was going on between him and Crowley, but even on the Garden wall, he had known that She only asked him where his flaming sword was because She wanted to hear his answer.“I’ll go see him, then, see what’s the matter. I’ll hold his hand again. It seemed to calm him down on the bus.” Aziraphale’s eyes finally flicked back to the room around him, a hum rumbling in his chest as he rushed to his coat rack before the wind in his sails could die down.A screech brought him to a dead halt, his hands flicking from his coat to cover his ears as he did his best not to cringe. Tyres squalled outside, but there was no sound of collision. Instead, they ceased just outside the bookshop, the sound of a metal door slamming quick to follow.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: After the End Comes Healing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108397
Comments: 16
Kudos: 85





	1. Three Weeks Later

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to my previous story, going into detail on the instances mentioned that had happened before Too Much. Aziraphale's sensory issues and meltdown are based on my own experiences (I am currently in the process of being diagnosed with autism), but his stims are taken from the show.

Chapter 1

Despite his clear intelligence, one could say that the angel, who had resided in London, Soho as a bookseller for the better part of two centuries, was of the oblivious sort. Ironically, he was more than aware of that, most of the time.

A good, healthy understanding of one’s own obliviousness could come in handy when confronted with condescending superiors and situations that have too many outcomes to accurately make a confident choice.

After all, if Gabriel already thought of him as about as mentally capable as the eccentric uncle who no one but the children actually enjoys discoursing with, then there was no need for getting even more harshly reprimanded for pointing out that his supervisor’s tone was really rather rude, thank you very much.

It also kept his feathers out of hell fire, literally speaking, when it came to his relationship with a certain demon. At least, until it really mattered. He never liked using his obviousness as an advantage against his life-long friend, but… that was all in the past now, and Aziraphale would really just prefer that both he and Crowley forget that, because the other outcome doesn’t bear thinking about. It wasn’t beyond him that his indulging in Crowley’s friendship had nearly destroyed his best friend, and that, in an effort to remind them both of that, Aziraphale had been rather harsh. No, not just harsh. So many times, his words had sounded less like his own, and more like Gabriel’s or a petulant child’s _. I don’t even like you._ (Even three weeks later, Aziraphale had not forgiven himself for saying such horrid things to his best friend, and had come to realise just how often he used such sharp words to unfairly prick his best friend.)

Now was certainly not the time for Aziraphale to indulge in his somewhat overplayed obliviousness. It hadn’t been for a few days now. Perhaps it would have been nice, to pretend and let it all blow over on its own, but he was a rotten enough friend already, and what kind of angel would he be? The only problem was, he had no idea how to help.

One might think that six thousand years of socialising might give someone some finesse when it comes to communication and body language. Perhaps it had with Crowley, who had taken every new decade in saunter, idioms and all. To Aziraphale, each new social rule and taboo raced past him before he could grasp them, leaving behind more insecurities than assurances.

Oh, he had a list of things to do, or not to do, in public, and they seemed to change every few years: do not rub the tatty hem of his vest, make eye contact (but not too long), kissing as a greeting is no longer acceptable, and do not wiggle or flap because it draws too much attention. Attention was not safe, attention came with reprimands and chiding. His hands came to rest in front of him at the thought, intertwined in each other in an attempt to keep them still.

No, attention was not to be sought, not unless it was only Crowley’s available, who seemed not to mind the angel’s incessant fidgeting. Bless him. Sometimes, it seemed like he actively tried to encourage it. Aziraphale had sometimes caught the other smiling when positive emotions bubbled over, causing that silly wiggle or the fluttering of hands that somehow released those feelings like nothing else. Never once had he teased, either. The problem was, none of that helped his currently whirring mind. How Crowley helped ease Aziraphale mattered little when it was the other way around.

Without a thought, Aziraphale’s fingers tugged to straighten his vest, rubbing the threadbare fabric between his thumb and forefinger. If he were to be honest with himself, and what an admittedly rare occasion that could be, he wasn’t sure if his hesitation came simply from his anxiety about mucking everything up, or that cowardice he thought had utterly obliterated three weeks before. No matter the answer, he could still feel the emotions that were not his own, pricking at his flesh. They were so overwhelming that he couldn’t exactly parse what each individual feeling was, so intertwined that he could not pick apart the threads to analyse.

Aziraphale knew the fear that had kept Crowley alive for so long. It was an almost intangible among the other things that made Crowley “Crowley” unless one knew where to look, had wormed one’s way through the demon’s iron-strong barriers. It hid at the very core of the coiling, writhing bands of his soul. However, since the final day, it had only become more biting, mingling with the mass of emotions, becoming too jarring and consuming for Aziraphale to grasp.

At first, like the angel, Crowley had seemed overjoyed at his newfound freedom. They had wined, dined, and pestered each other long into the nights, with no fear. At least, almost no fear. The bookshop still held a psychosomatic, lingering odour of fire for both of them, shadows perhaps were washed away with more light than typical, and neither of them spoke about the bus ride, or the exhausted domesticity that had settled that night on the couch once the last prophecy had been understood. The night that that could never had happened under the guise of simple comradery.

Even when Crowley had left his side a few days ago, looking rather agitated, he had thought that everything was fine, that Crowley just needed time to process the eleven years of stress and the culmination of the literal hell that followed. One would think a nap would be in order after all that time. Then, it had hit like a bomb siren racing down his spine, making him want to cover his ears despite the lack of actual sound.

The longer he fretted about it, the more it confirmed in Aziraphale’s head that he was nothing but a coward. How many times had Crowley come running in at a blip of distress radiating from Aziraphale? How many bad days had slipped through their connection unwittingly, bringing Crowley by with a flimsy excuse and a need for company? There was no external physical danger, that felt different, yet, Aziraphale still paced between his bookshelves, his fingers rubbing at his vest so fervently that the tips of his digits were growing warm.

One did not just go to a frightened Crowley and ask him to be frank. That would be as advantageous as cornering a spooked animal. No. He had to get this right. To pop over to Crowley’s flat with the right words and make it all better.

It wasn’t as if Aziraphale hadn’t expected it all to hit them both rather suddenly. Three weeks had passed now, between everything going up in flames and now, and all those books about trauma liked to discuss the time between the event that caused the trouble, and the person’s actual response to it. Everything might seem fine, at first, and then the mind realises that it’s safe, and it… well, does this.

Honestly, he was surprised at his own numbness that still clung to the whole situation, having expected himself to be the first to face the truth, and his calm to be ripped asunder in the process. He was the one who had had more to lose, in a sense. Hell had never been a home for Crowley, but, as an angel… surely he should have been the one upset about being booted from Heaven. He supposed, however, he did still have Her Grace, and that’s all that really mattered to him about being ethereal.

Another lap around the bookshop put Aziraphale in front of the desk, where the newest book on that particular topic lay innocuously. The hardback had a much more garish cover than the angel would have preferred, but, as with all medical text, the newest were typically the most useful. Crowley would not enjoy to know that Aziraphale had been reading such books since mental health had become a legitimate (and actually positive) study in an attempt to help the demon’s more morose moods.

Having gone through nearly every major human war since the beginning of time, in one way or another, and six millennia of watching so many beings rise and fall, friends and enemies alike… neither the angel nor demon were unfamiliar with trauma. Crowley, with his Fallen state, was one of the first beings to ever experience it, and had gone through things that even Aziraphale could not understand. There were words and stories not even spoken between the two of them. So, it was only natural to seek information on such topics. While human minds were certainly not identical to their occult or ethereal counterparts, there were still parallels to be had. Besides, it broke the emotions into something Aziraphale could categorise, and, therefore, handle. They were not so overwhelming if he could understand the reasoning behind them. He only wished now that the many different opinions and advice in said books could be so easily condensed into a series of steps.

Grabbing the book and cradling it to his chest, the angel turned from his cluttered desk, taking a steadying breath. “Just need to practice,” he told himself with a false cheerfulness that didn’t even fool himself, “Then I’ll pop over. Settle him down.”

He took a few steps forward, as if approaching the demon. “Crowley, I’ve noticed you’ve been a tad upset… which is entirely understandable… but it’s getting worse by the day and I’d rather… well, I’d rather like to help, dear boy.”

Huff, the angel shook his head, knowing how distant that sounded. After the last eleven years, after the words said and insults thrown, distance was not something Aziraphale wanted to instill once more. He was just never good at this. Crowley was, he could make Aziraphale smile so easily, or stop a child fussing over a scraped knee. Now, Crowley needed him and… the angel’s hands curled against the book, his shoulders coming up to make him have even less of a neck. If his wings had been out, he might have been as ruffled as an indignant pigeon.

“I love you, Crowley,” he began with conviction, straightening his spine, “but….” No, that sounded like rejection. The flighty demon would escape before he could even finish the thought. Plus, he doubted he’d do more than stumble over the first words. Too forward. Much too forward.

“He did hold my hand,” he agonised to no one, setting the shiny-covered book back down on the desk with an unhappy thump that startled the angel. “We’re free to do that now, if he wants to. I don’t have to go so slow. Is that what he needs? Or is that too much?” Hands free of the book, they scrabbled at his hair, mussing it up, before rubbing down his cheeks to his bowtie. “I’m free. He’s free.” A nervous glance upwards followed the words as he double-checked the straightness of his bowtie.

The ceiling was as indifferent as ever. “If you didn’t want me to love him, you would have struck me down millennia ago,” he added, his tone faint and uneven, but gaining confidence when he was not immediately cast down into a pool of boiling sulfur. “I can’t believe that I could ever fall from Your Grace for loving another. Especially once who loves Your Creation as much as Crowley does.” He ended his words with a nod and a flutter of hands. His eyes closed, “We’ll look after humanity, in our own way, as long as You see fit. I cannot imagine this not being in your Plan. You wouldn’t destroy all of this for pettiness.”

A swell of assurance burned in his chest as his hands fussed over one another. It was decided then. It wasn’t a blessing, but he’d gotten his thoughts out and his white wings weren’t beginning to smolder. Heaven wasn’t watching. At least, anyone who would… anyone like Gabriel. After all, for millennia, he might have allowed himself to be oblivious to Her omniscience, pretending that she couldn’t know exactly what was going on between him and Crowley, but even on the Garden wall, he had known that She only asked him where his flaming sword was because She wanted to hear his answer.

“I’ll go see him, then, see what’s the matter. I’ll hold his hand again. It seemed to calm him down on the bus.” Aziraphale’s eyes finally flicked back to the room around him, a hum rumbling in his chest as he rushed to his coat rack before the wind in his sails could die down.

A screech brought him to a dead halt, his hands flicking from his coat to cover his ears as he did his best not to cringe. Tyres squalled outside, but there was no sound of collision. Instead, they ceased just outside the bookshop, the sound of a metal door slamming quick to follow.

The Bentley was starkly cut in the twilight streets of Soho, the figure emerging from the black shadow just as piercing. The pole of a man straightened to his full height, red hair bright under a street lamp.

Something was wrong with the demon’s walk as he careened towards the bookshop. Be it emotions or drink, Crowley’s usual saunter was flattened into a striding march that listed off to one side, one arm swinging out to counterbalance. A bottle was clutched in the oscillating hand, mostly, if not entirely empty, judging by the lack of spilled alcohol. There was a pause in the demon’s traipse as those golden eyes caught sight of the red shop, all hint of sclera gone.

A wave of distress struck Aziraphale so viciously that he stumbled back, his hand clutching at his chest. It brought tears to his eyes, but he shakily wiped them away. Now was not the time to be overwhelmed. Crowley needed him.

“My dear boy,” the angel breathed as he opened the door to let in the sloshed demon. The wind was knocked out of him a second time as he was barreled into, the stench of an unpleasant mix of drinks striking his nose just as violently. Somewhere, vomit may have been mixed in as well.

Some part of Aziraphale froze, his fingers hover over Crowley’s thin frame. The fluttering in his chest was not an entirely pleasant sensation and there was far too much touch for his body to handle. But, Crowley needed him, and if the prior weeks had taught Aziraphale anything, it was how often he had not been there when he should have.

Without another thought, Aziraphale’s strong arms wrapped around the tremulous being, tugging Crowley further into the interior of the shop. The demon stumbled along without the minutest of resistance. Only then did the angel realise just how hard the other was clutching onto him, as if to let go would allow Aziraphale to be lost to the void.

There was no looking Crowley in the eye, his head bowed, face towards the floor and ruddy hair hiding everything but his ears from view. His forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s chest in a way that was surely uncomfortable for his back.

Once the demon registered the angel’s supporting contact, his wobbly legs gave out, and, if Aziraphale had not been a principality, made with strength in mind, it would have taken them both to the floor. As it was, he lowered them both to the rug, ignoring how his knees protested.

“Everything’s all right now,” Aziraphale found himself promising, his hand moving to cup the back of Crowley’s skull, the soft, short hairs grounding him as much as his touch hopefully grounded Crowley. “All tickety-boo.”

There was a small sound from Crowley, muffled against the other’s shirt.

“My dear?” the angel inquired, tilting his head down to look at the demon.

“Couldn’t find… find you. You’d gone,” Crowley’s words were faint, even when they were understandable, a shaky hiss of a breath following them. “You’d gone. You’re never… ever gone.”

Aziraphale’s chin trembled at the grief rolling off of his best friend. “I’m right here, Crowley,” he assured gently, trying to make his voice as certain as possible. “Was just as rather unfortunate discorporation, nothing more. I’m right here, and always will be. Not going anywhere without you.”

Crowley shook his head, and the stressed hissing dissolved into silent sobs. “’Said wouldn’t think ‘bout you…. Then couldn’t feel… y’were gone. Last thing I said….”

“I had said some very nasty things too, much worse than yours, I’m afraid.” White wings manifested themselves, wrapping around the pair to block out the world. Maybe if Crowley could smell him, be surrounded by him and not the bookshop, it could help him settle down. The demon’s panicked sobs shook the both of them, and the angel could only vaguely imagine what was going on inside his dear’s alcohol-addled mind. Oh, those books would have been more helpful if any of their ideas had stuck in his head when he actually needed them. “We were both trying to get each other to see sense, my dear, and were beyond stressed. I could never hold that against you.”

That earned a nod from the demon but the sobs were growing higher in pitch and faster in speed, until the poor boy was all but gasping for air, even as the angel coddled him. That Aziraphale knew all too well, though he had only recently learned the term for it. Humans and their categorising, their lovely words for things that didn’t make sense.

“Can you try to sober up for me, dear boy?” he asked the shaking form, but was met only with the tight, rapid breaths. He was rubbish at this, could kick himself for not creating a plan for this very thing. Quickly, he pulled Crowley closer, desperately trying to work out a way to help before his friend spiraled further away.

Grounding. There had been methods to that, hadn’t there? And one did not go through two world wars without understanding a bit about shell shock. Carefully, he pried one of Crowley’s hands from his clothing, firmly grasping, intertwining fingers. He could not help but smile when the touch was returned in kind.

“Crowley, my dear, I am right here, with you, on the floor of the bookshop,” Aziraphale stated calmly, feeling more confident now that their fingers were locked together. “I want you to focus on me and I want you to follow my breathing. Once you’re calmer, we’ll move to the couch where we’ll both be comfy.” He continued to stroke a thumb through the hair at Crowley’s nape, his manicured fingers scratching lightly over the small scales there, manifested from stress. Schooling his own breathing into something slow and deep, the only other being in the universe right now was the trembling figure clinging to him.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale cooed as he listened to Crowley’s chugging breaths ease, his body slowly going lax in the cocoon of feathers. Perhaps the scent of his wings had helped after all. He was almost sure he saw the flick of a forked tongue aimed in their direction.

There was the temptation to simply sober the other up, but the sudden shock of sobriety might be too much on even an occult being in this state. Aziraphale had sensed the distress starting to edge across their bond three days ago. Crowley must have been drinking solidly for at least most of that, judging by the concoction of smells seeping off of him, and that could have only been after Crowley lost control enough to no longer hide his pain.

The last time the angel had seen him in such a sorry state had been after his commendation for the Inquisition. How the demon had not destroyed his precious car on the way over, much less has kept conscious this long, was nothing sort of a miracle.

“Y’keep burning,” Crowley slurred once he was calm enough for words. This time, a serpentine tongue did flicker out, long and flexing, giving the other time to gather what he wanted to say in his head. “Keep burning…b…burning, like the… like the books! Keep seein’ it. Smelling it.”

Oh. A solid lump of lead settled in Aziraphale’s stomach. The phantom stench of burnt flesh hit his own nostrils at the thought, having too much experience with the smell. “My dearest, I never burned,” he explained, stroking his hand through Crowley’s hair to coax the poor dear to listen. Some of the scales had eased now, leaving only the smaller ones, where Aziraphale knew each freckle to be. “It was never hellfire, and I discorporated before the first spark. A candle must have been knocked over when I backed into the circle. I didn’t know it burned, remember?”

Crowley’s head wobbled upwards, in a motion somewhere between a snake judging its surroundings and a man teetering on the edge of consciousness. Maybe both, in Crowley’s case, his eyes, poor in the best of times, struggling to focus. He gave Aziraphale that same oh-so-gentle expression that he had on the park bench that night. His hand shakily tightened on Aziraphale’s. “Thought I-I lost m’best friend,” he hiccoughed, his reddened eyes leaking another tear down his face. “Was gonna let everything burn, ‘cause y’were gone.”

 _Friends? We’re not friends! I don’t even like you!_ It took everything not to cringe at Crowley’s words, at the points of contact that he no longer felt like he deserved. But, it would not do to pull away, not when his best friend needed it. “I made a mistake, and it almost cost me… it almost cost me my best friend too,” he admitted softly, unable to resist pecking Crowley’s forehead in an attempt to soothe.

A noise, rather like air escaping from a balloon, exited the demon’s mouth, his lips twisting downward in drunken anxiety. “’M your best friend?”

“The very best,” Aziraphale assured, his voice cracking but earning an even higher squeak from the other. “There is no being, immortal or otherwise, who I love more deeply.”

“Blegh,” came the eloquent response, which could have been something between an affirmation and a comment, an ‘I love you too, but this is too much right now.’

“Quite right, dear boy,” Aziraphale answered, understanding the sentiment entirely.

Crowley’s eyes had gone wide, but they were so glassy that Aziraphale was surprised he had neither a lapful of passed out demon or vomit. The demon’s overall pallor did nothing to hide the dark bruises under his eyes from exhaustion, even with his drink-pinkened cheeks. Now that he was leaving panic mode, even his grip on Aziraphale was slacking. Surely, his head was moments way from lolling limp to one side.

“Would you be against me holding you, my dear? So you can get some peaceful sleep?” Was that going too fast? Pushing too much while Crowley was vulnerable? He was all too aware that, no matter what his intentions were, a wrong move could send this spiraling once more. However, he couldn’t stand the thought of his demon succumbing to nightmares or fighting to stay awake in fear.

“Don’ wanna dream.”

Tutting calmly, the angel continued fussing over the demon’s hair, trying to find the right words. He doubted he would ever get used to the wonderful texture. “No dreams to be had, I promise.”

Finally, a nod shifted his hand, and a nod was all Aziraphale needed. Unwilling to test Crowley’s ability to walk, he easily scooped up the scrawny demon, making quick work of settling them both onto the sofa. There was something consoling about the pressure of Crowley’s head against his chest, his body draped down the angel’s in the most comfortable way that could be arranged. It was like a heavy, heated blanket. An old quilt was tucked around the all but limp form, and one of Aziraphale’s wings settled across Crowley’s side, the other tucked close to his own side.

“Was it a dream that got you so upset?” Aziraphale dared to ask, unable to stop his hands from fretting as he watched his best friend relax.

“Y’were screaming,” the sentence was barely that, muttered against the angel’s chest and slurred to boot. “Made you walk in th’shop…but it wasn’t me a’ you…. co-couldn’t swap. Kept asking you… t’just walk in. No trial. You’d do it an’… an’ scream. Could smell it.”

“Well, no more of that,” it was a lame promise, but it was the only thing the angel could say to that. Crowley had been hesitant to even mention the lack of a trial to the other, and the thought of the demon’s mind merging those two awful memories together into some coagulation of pain, there were not words that could be said to wipe that way. Instead, he swallowed down the lump in his throat. “You’ll have a restful, dreamless sleep and wake when you’re ready.”

There was no fight against the angelic influence, Crowley’s eyelids drifting partly shut as his breathing evened out and slowed.

“You have looked after me for so long, my love,” Aziraphale whispered, “I believe it’s my turn for tonight, and as often as you need me.”

Exhaling through his nose, the angel settled, knowing that his poor demon needed the sleep and he certainly was not going to leave him, even for a moment. His own body was quivering lightly from seeing his best friend in such a state, only just noticing the tension, but they were safe. In sleep, the distress waned and warmed. Aziraphale allowed his own borders to ease away, just enough to allow the being in his arms to feel the depth of his affection, hoping to further impart a sense of safety.

Crowley deserved safety, deserved affection, both of which had been sorely missing from his existence since he fell. Perhaps even before. For two centuries, the bookshop had been the closest thing to a haven for the both of them. If one thought of it on a more instinctual level, maybe a nest would be the right word. An ache bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest at the thought. It was little wonder that the burning of the shop had affected Crowley so. He hugged the sleeping being a tad closer.

They would find that security again, he would make it happen, even if this nest had to be abandoned for another. Maybe, a new start would do them both good. A glance around the dark shop threatened to dash the idea to pieces, however. The thought of moving, of such change after so long…. He was a creature of habit, of routine, and he had to admit that even the thought of such change was distressing. It would be so easy to dismiss the idea before it truly began.

No. He would do anything for Crowley, even if the demon took to the idea like a whirlwind, like his creative mind so often did with ideas, before Aziraphale could cope with it. He owed him that much. Even if it meant moving out of London. Maybe a cottage near the sea would be lovely, with a garden. That sounded nice. Perhaps he could keep the shop to store some of his lesser books.

Flexing and twisting his fingers behind Crowley’s back, the angel let out a soothing breath. That was not a conversation for whenever Crowley woke up. It was not a conversation that was likely to happen for a few months, at least. There were too many emotional wounds still left to bleed, too much fear of the future.

Right now, Aziraphale had Crowley in his arms, not for the first time in six millennia, given drinking and injuries, but for the first time to simply comfort. His soft fingers ran between the demon’s shoulder blades, the thumb automatically trying to rub out the tension still there, right where those lovely black wings should be.

Some part of Aziraphale had always been worried that such close contact with even Crowley might prove uncomfortable. Smaller touches, brushes of skin against skin had been enough to send a current of needling electricity up his arms, be it from Gabriel, Crowley, or anyone in between. A pat to the back or a grasping of the shoulder usually made his entirely body go rigid and his face contort in a grimace. However, for some reason or another, the weight of Crowley was heavenly, the up and down of Crowley’s chest rhythmic.

From this close, he could see every line of age that the demon had allowed to etch into his features, the crow lines that crinkled when he truly smiled, and how, even calmed, his freckles could be mistaken for tiny scales, nothing more than pinpricks. Aziraphale already knew every line as well as he knew Crowley, but it was still something new to be allowed to observe so unabashedly, outright, without fear of retribution. He smiled at Crowley’s parted lips, smushed from his cheek’s contact with Aziraphale’s chest, and he found himself grateful to be able to see how pliant the other’s face became in sleep.

Hopefully, there would be more nights, without nightmares or resurfacing trauma. Nights where the touch was not born out of desperation. But when Crowley needed him, he would, he _could_ be there now, as he knew Crowley would be for him.

Settling farther down into the sofa, the angel closed his eyes, arms and wings securely wrapped around the demon, unwilling to let anything else happen to him. It was like having his hands unbound from behind him, to be able to touch without excuse or lie, to stretch his fingers without wondering who was watching. Aziraphale was not oblivious enough to believe, after all these years, tethered and threatened, that it was not going to take time, and tears. However, they could reach out now, with raw wrists and fingers, and that was enough.


	2. Four Weeks Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feeling blazed hot behind the angel’s sternum like frustration, burning brighter even as he attempted to quench it. However, it was deeper than frustration, some innate sensation that he knew well but could never find the term for. It made him want to lash out, to cry, to hide, but he could not describe it even as annoyance. Besides, an angel was not meant for anger or fury, certainly not at something as innocuous as sound. Yet that strange sensation continued its way up his face, making him grit his teeth, his entire body going rigid.  
> He couldn’t move, couldn’t wake Crowley, but his arms shook, fighting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. There was no sense in this strange irritability, especially now, not with his demon all but in his lap and no Gabriel waiting for him to fall. There was no reason for his very soul to want to hide away as if something was actively trying to harm him. The worst was, in a way, it did hurt, digging into his ears, into the sensitive nerves that make up his corporeal form, making him want to shake his head like a wet dog.

Chapter 2

Aziraphale should not feel like this. He knew that, had schooled himself for six millennia to not feel like this, but he had been just as good at it as he was at being an angel.

The day have been atrocious. He needed to clean. Even if he had not mentioned his idea of moving to Crowley, who had rarely left his side since sobering up, he was hoping that if he were proactive, getting things in some sorted order, that it would be easier when the time came. Sorting through hundreds of years’ worth of files would surely acclimatise him, get him in the mindset for going forward. That was the idea anyway, before his desk had been overflowing with old missives, long stored away for reasons even unknown to Aziraphale.

Among them sat those pristine letters, with broken seals of golden wax. The flowing, perfect lettering recounted every reason he had failed to be even an adequate angel. Too selfish. Too hedonistic. Too much. Too focused on the small details. It was rarely about the individuals; they were merely collateral damage.

He had not always been aware of Gabriel’s version of disdain, of condescension. Sarcasm, that wasn’t Crowley’s specific brand of it, was particularly difficult for Aziraphale to parse, and the archangel had always wrapped it up in a smile and an unwelcomed touch, which, whether or not it was intended as companionable or not, typically distracted the lesser angel away from whatever the other was saying. Aziraphale could see why Gabriel thought him mentally lesser now, why that smile had always seemed wrong to him. Between trying to look the other in the eye and avoiding said touch, it was no wonder that the principality had seemed like a bumbling idiot.

Now, he could see it in the letters where he hadn’t before, could see that tight too-bright smile and violet eyes, even if he struggled to imagine all of his old superior’s face. Even in commendations and congratulations, there were concealed threats, a demeaning tone that only doubled the sterner letters. He didn’t dare touch the letters he knew were true reprimands, the ones that came with a recall to Heaven and the memories of harsher punishments across his skin.

The said letters were currently nothing more than ash in the fireplace. Aziraphale had never seen his demon so livid at inanimate objects as he was as Aziraphale at the desk, his hands scrubbing over one another fitfully and his body rocking in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

All it took was one hand on the angel’s shoulder to lose the fight of keeping his hands at bay, biting his lip to keep from audibly sobbing, even now, afraid of someone hearing.

It had been known for centuries that he was unloved by the rest of the Host, who were supposed to love all. He had known, had had it confirmed by what little information Crowley would tell him about his execution. That he had not even been worth a trial. Seeing it written out, however, so blatant to him now…. It was irrefutable.

There had been an audible pop as every unnaturally perfect letter vanished from his desk and reappeared into the fireplace. Crowley did not even give them time to catch fire against the cold wood, the heavenly paper crumbling into ash as if they had been cast into a roaring hearth hours ago.

Night had fallen, between the end of the letters and now. He really knew he ought not to, but he found himself glancing back at the ashes, as if they had eyes to stare back with, observing as the two had settled into their domestic state for the night. Not that it was anything obscene. Aziraphale had not been the only being of the pair who had been tethered and bound. Touch was not something either of them had bountiful pleasant experiences with.

Within the past week or so, small, furtive touches were exchanged between the two, and at night, they had taken to sharing the couch. Without word or grand gesture, the two had found some comfort in keeping side-by-side, not particularly touching until Crowley’s head inevitably and slowly found its way to the angel’s shoulder or chest. And that was how they would stay until morning, a pile of books taking a new place on the coffee table for the angel’s amusement as the demon slept.

Whether it got past that, or even past kisses, did not matter to Aziraphale. After all, who could possibly dictate how their bonding should be? Six thousand years of their companionship surpassed any other terrestrial relationship. It left a trust and understanding, while damaged and healing, that transcended any other frame of reference Aziraphale had. Angels had not chosen mates since the War (he does not count the incident that created the Nephilim) and… he would rather not think about the demon side of that equation, after stories from Crowley.

He could feel the love radiating from the sleeping Crowley, and he was allowed to accept that it was for him rather than use that weaponised obliviousness to pretend, to protect his own heart. It warmed the room, settling like a feather without a breeze. Closing his eyes, Aziraphale did his best to soak it in, to lose himself in it and ignore the anxiousness that still ached in his shoulders.

It should have been enough. Aziraphale knew that. In all the novels he had read, the closeness of a loved one was supposed to calm the mind and soul, relax the muscles. He could literally feel the emotions of his demon, all but shouting that they were safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. His mouth formed around the word repeatedly even as his eyes were drawn back to the fireplace, even as his fingers scratched at the back of Crowley’s head.

The book he had been attempting to read had been abandoned on the arm of the sofa. He tried to focus on its coarse, hard cover, the golden lettering down its spine, but his gaze wandered the bookshop, as if hunted.

There was nothing wrong, the shop dark save for the area they sat in, nothing different other than the lack of cluttering paper and a thick layer of dust (that being Crowley’s doing that morning.)

It, too, was quiet. The gramophone had been playing some time ago, but the lapse in concentration from Aziraphale had allowed it to run its course, the needle now lightly scraping at the smooth end of the record. Its light popping and hissing mingled with the buzz of electricity from a nearby cherub lamp, and the patter of rain against the windows of the shop that in itself blended with the low rumble of thunder. The faint cacophony was persistent, and now that his brain had registered it, it would not let it go, making it impossible to ignore.

The sigh the angel released was shakier than he had expected it to be, his fingers trying to stroke in time with the noise, to help his body make sense of it, but it still put his teeth on edge, the tension pooling all the more between his shoulder blades. If he had released his wings, they would be curling in towards his body protectively, he could feel them doing so on their own plane, but it was too awkward of an angle to ever consider it. Waking Crowley was not an option. He had already upset his dear demon enough today.

Something roiled in Aziraphale’s chest as the rain grew more persistent, the once faint thunder becoming more violent. It wasn’t fear, per se, but it lit up his nerves, every muscle wanting to tense, as if readying for a fight. Despite the louder volume, it did nothing to drown out the rest that it sat discordant against.

The feeling blazed hot behind the angel’s sternum like frustration, burning brighter even as he attempted to quench it. However, it was deeper than frustration, some innate sensation that he knew well but could never find the term for. It made him want to lash out, to cry, to hide, but he could not describe it even as annoyance. Besides, an angel was not meant for anger or fury, certainly not at something as innocuous as sound. Yet that strange sensation continued its way up his face, making him grit his teeth, his entire body going rigid.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t wake Crowley, but his arms shook, fighting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. There was no sense in this strange irritability, especially now, not with his demon all but in his lap and no Gabriel waiting for him to fall. There was no reason for his very soul to want to hide away as if something was actively trying to harm him. The worst was, in a way, it did hurt, digging into his ears, into the sensitive nerves that make up his corporeal form, making him want to shake his head like a wet dog.

Lightning brightened up the room momentarily, stinging the angel’s eyes. No. No. No. It was all he could do not to allow his emotional barriers to slip, to wake Crowley up with his distress. He was being silly. He was a six-thousand-year-old, functionally immortal being. Despite that, his knuckle went into his mouth, biting down hard to keep himself from whimpering.

It was only then that he realised how violently he was trembling, how fast his heart was pumping and his breath was ghosting over his fingers. Closing his eyes once more, he could only pray that this ended before his dear demon woke, that he would be strong enough to deal with this on his own. He had in the past. He’d had no choice in the matter, it could have been used against him, by angel or demon alike. It wasn’t as if Gabriel hadn’t already in the past, had made sure Aziraphale always remembered there was something wrong with him.

There was an attempt to pick up his abandoned book, but the pages felt too dry to his clammy fingers, making him nearly drop the innocent book in revulsion of the texture. Getting thoroughly frustrated with his weakness, he forced himself to grab it once more, to open it and focus his eyes on the page he’d closed on. The brush of paper against skin made him squirm, wanting to tear his hand away, but his discomfort be damned.

A bright flash was the only warning the angel had before a crack of thunder peeled across the streets of Soho, so loud that it shook the old windows in their frames. Car alarms screamed in answer, oblivious to one another’s calls and caterwauling off tempo.

Aziraphale wrenched himself off of the sofa, some instinct screaming that the archangels were here, that he had failed to protect Crowley. His wings spread out like a shield, feathers ruffled, but there was no determination in his stance, the once-warrior curling in on himself against the overwhelming input. His knuckle was still in his mouth, teeth bared against it as he fought the instincts to both run and fight. He stumbled back, the alarms still ringing in his ears. Another bright flash blinded him, lighting up the room so starkly, like the Host smiting Gomorrah.

They were here. He and Crowley had had so little time. His free hand moved to his ear, trying to muffle the dim stabbing daggers into his senses. His heart in his chest, remade by Adam, hammered traitorously, adding to the input that needled Aziraphale from all sides, turning his legs into jelly.

He had to protect Crowley, their home, but his body rebelled, crumpling to the floor at the demon’s feet, both palms pressed hard over his ears, his entire essence trying to shrink further inside his corporeal form. It took everything not to scream.

Someone was talking, not shouting, not ordering, but whispering. When hands touched him, even as he flinched, they did not pry his hands from his ears but coaxed. They were delicate, but, as if aware of the sparks that they caused in his overstimulated nerves, they also kept firm, weighty.

When the angel finally dared to open his eyes, blue met yellow, the white sclera missing from Crowley’s gaze. That did not stop them from being gentle, the demon’s focus on the angel’s hands so eye contact did not have to be made.

Something was pressed into the angel’s ear canals, dulling the alarms before they were quieted altogether by a wave of Crowley’s hand.

The muted world was jarring, but not unwelcomed. Aziraphale’s eyes found themselves fixed towards the entrance of the shop, his fingers grasping at Crowley. There was an attempt to warn the demon of what his mind was still screaming, but his tongue had disconnected from the rest of him, the words and muscles necessary for speech unlinked.

“Angel.”

The voice, even Crowley’s, even stifled, made the angel wince. His body was rocking, knees tucked under him as his hands kept their hold on his demon. Still, his eyes only met Crowley’s nose, unable to move higher, before flicking back to the door as another bout of thunder rumbled.

“They’re not here,” Crowley promised in a breath, shushing the angel, his own hands at his side. “Just’a storm.”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Reach out with your senses, angel. It’s alright. ‘Promise. We’re safe.”

Slowly, the angel did just that, struggling to force his angelic eyes open, to make his true self uncoil. There was no one, save for the so-familiar being before him. His mouth opened, to say that he was being silly, that he was sorry for reacting so harshly to a bit of rain, but what came out what nothing more than an unintelligible mess of syllables. Frustrated tears pricked at the angel’s eyes, it taking every ounce of self not to grasp at fistfuls of his hair. Instead, his hands let go of Crowley, tucking against his chest.

“It’s alright,” Crowley whispered again, a breath coming out as a shushing hiss. His head tilted, pausing a moment to look over the other. “You trust me, yeah?” he finally asked, his tone gentle.

Of course, but his words were still lost somewhere between thought and vocal cords. Aziraphale mutely nodded. The movement dislodged the first tears, letting them slip down his cheeks.

“I wanna try something, t’see if it’ll help,” the other explained, “just smack me if you don’t like it, okay?”

Another nod, not sure what his wily demon was wanting but trusting him all the same.

Crowley’s tongue flicked out, long and thin, before scales erupted over darkening skin. The Serpent of Eden’s angular head lowered, body shifting as limps retracted back into simpler, slender muscle, coiling where the man-shaped being once knelt.

Oh-so-carefully, a column of strong muscle wound its way around the angel, smooth scales slipping easily over cloth and skin. The serpent’s long form twisted around his middle and chest, the tight workings of the thick body drowning out all else, allowing his mind to focus. His eyes focused on the iridescent scales that lined the demon’s back, how the more vibrant underbelly glowed against them. Like Crowley resting against him, the heavy weight did not hurt, instead tempting his body to relax. Aziraphale’s fingers found the smooth, cool scales, feeling life flexing underneath them, pressing his hand. Grounding. That was the word to describe what Crowley was doing. He remembered that now.

Tears of relief came unbidden as his demon’s head came to rest against his shoulder. The stressed sobs came bubbling out of him, but the certain weight all around him remained, gently squeezing in a simple rhythm. Aziraphale cried. For the first time in years, perhaps in a century, he allowed himself to cry, not that he could do much to stop it once it started.

Soft hisses whispered to him as the storm raged on outside and his tears continued. At some point, he had lowered himself onto his bottom, his knees aching. Still, Crowley never pulled away.

The needling stress, the burning in his chest and buzzing in his fingers finally gave way to exhaustion, leaving a numbness that pervaded from toes to scalp, a dull, prickly feeling, like his skin was just barely too tight. His jaw rested upon the serpentine head that had remained on his shoulder, his body growing slack.

“Better?” Crowley asked warmly, the smooth head tilting, tongue flicking. His muscles tightened all the more, like a hug.

Aziraphale managed a nod, swallowing before running his tongue through his dry mouth and over his lips. “’M sorry, dear boy,” the words came out muddled, smushed together and poorly annunciated, but present. Embarrassment was beginning to creep in. An angel should not be so frightened by noises, especially not a guardian. He had not gone through half of what Crowley had, and yet, who was comforting who?

The hiss that escaped Crowley was filled with disbelief, “Don’t apologissse, angel. Can’t help it. Not your fault.” He lifted his head from Aziraphale’s contact to look at his angel.

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale’s tone was flat, unable to find the will to ensure the proper intonation. At least he had found his words again, mostly. “I’m a… a prin… principality. I should be better th… than this.” He was broken. That was the truth of it, but he did not dare utter that in front of Crowley. Perhaps the Almighty had gotten distracted by some more important duty during his creation, causing him to be missing something, some celestial wire unattached. No matter if he said it or not, the stiffening in Crowley’s coils suggested that he understood, and he was not happy about it.

There was silence for a beat or two, the gears in Crowley’s head almost audibly grinding. “I know you’ve been reading books about trauma,” Crowley finally started, “about depression, to help me.” The serpent shifted to be angel nose to snake snout, nodding to get a better fix of Aziraphale. “Saw them a few days ago.”

Aziraphale’s gaze focused on Crowley’s nostrils, unable to deny anything but also unable to read the emotions behind the words.

“I may have… read a book or two t’help too,” Crowley admitted, in the shy way he used when admitting to being kind without an excuse, as if someone was going to beat him for it. “Over the past few years. For you, I mean.”

“It’s not like… like shell shock,” Aziraphale stated, using the older term since the newer escaped his tired mind. “This has always been… there.” Honestly, he had no idea how to describe it.

“I know. S’not something that’s changed. Not saying that.” A soft, breathy hiss followed, then a pause. “You researched for me based on, ya’know, human conditions, yeah?”

Not sure if it was actually a question that needed an answer, Aziraphale nodded.

“Hold on, need my hands.” Within seconds, the secure pressure of the serpent was gone, but Crowley was by his side once more. He sat cross-legged beside Aziraphale, reaching into his tight pockets for that silly mobile of his before typing something out.

Then, the mobile was held out to him. What was on the screen was like a diary entry, the writer describing something called a ‘meltdown’. There were new words that Aziraphale had never heard about, like ‘stims,’ but a strange pang stung in the angel’s chest, an understanding that made his hands shake. His free hand fluttered in response to a mention of the action in the text.

“The writer was born with something called autism,” Crowley explained, his tone ever soft, quiet in case it might sting the angel’s ears. “We aren’t human, and maybe our brains don’t work exactly the same way, angel, but….” The demon swallowed, taking a moment to find exactly what he wanted to say. “Would you blame that writer for her meltdown? For getting upset in all that noise from the crowd?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Then don’t blame yourself for yours. Just like you didn’t blame me for the other night. Just like you wouldn’t blame her,” he pointed at the diary entry.

The tears were back, dripping down the angel’s nose before he could even try to stop them.

“Can I hug you?” his demon asked. When the nod came, Aziraphale was wrapped up once more, this time in Crowley’s wiry arms, black wings, iridescent like his scales, blotting out the world. “Maybe these things just make us a bit more human, yeah?”

The angel buried his face against Crowley’s chest, letting himself be surrounded by the other’s warmth, the other’s scent as his body shook. It was Crowley’s turn to cradle the back of Aziraphale’s head.

“We’ve got each other, angel. We’ll be okay.”


End file.
